There is nothing left for me to do here so I walk back towards the station, the cold air making my chest hurt even more. I board the train home and try another call. This time, the voicemail doesn’t kick in straight away. His number rings and rings.

It’s Tim here. Or, to be exact, not here. Please leave a message.

‘You have to tell me what’s going on. You can’t run away from me, from whatever this is.’

I watch my phone for the whole journey but no message appears. At Brighton, I catch a bus from the station to the hospital and go looking for Laura. She’s the only person I can think of who Tim still sees or talks to. If she doesn’t know anything, I have no other ideas.

I find her in the diabetes clinic. When I tell her what’s happened, she looks shifty.

‘You knew?’ I try to read her face. ‘Are you . . . the two of you? You’re not together again, are you?’

‘No! I’m very happily engaged, OK?’ She scoffs. ‘Bloody Tim, I can’t believe he’s put me in this position.’

‘If you know where he is, please tell me. I have to talk to him.’

She exhales. ‘All right. Let me get a pen.’

Six years of taking 999 calls has given me a complete mental A–Z of the city. The address Laura gives me is under a mile away but I’m so exhausted that I get a taxi.

The flat is in a nondescript modern block behind Preston Park. When I buzz the intercom, a woman answers.

‘Hello?’

‘My name is Kerry Smith. I’ve been told this might be where my husband is staying.’

The connection goes dead. Is this real? Part of me wants to go home, curl up under the duvet, pretend it’s yesterday.

The lock buzzes. ‘Third floor.’

As I climb the stairs, the weariness of the six-hour round trip makes me light-headed.

A woman answers the door. Angular, but attractive, with dark oval eyes that bore into mine. ‘Hi. I’m Maria.’

I want to ask: are you my husband’s lover? Instead, I manage, ‘He’s here?’

‘Come through.’ She has an accent – Spanish or Italian.

Tim stands by the window, his face dark and strained against the brightness of the winter light, but definitely in one piece.

I step forward and, without planning to, slap him hard across the cheek. My fingers sting. He flinches but says nothing.

‘How dare you run away, after everything?’

His eyes dart about, settling on anything except me. Behind us, the living-room door closes softly. This room is nothing like the bungalow: it’s sparsely but tastefully furnished from charity shops. Neat piles of books serve as lamp tables. No TV.

Perhaps they’re too busy talking – or screwing – to need distractions.

Stars appear at the edge of my vision. ‘I need to sit down.’